Endure
by cornonthecobert
Summary: In the aftermath of the death of King Robert Baratheon, many claim that they are the rightful heir. But by all the laws in Westeros, there is only one true king. And he sits atop the throne on Dragonstone. Stannis Baratheon is well known for his grit and determination. But with traitors and would be usurpers all around, the Seven Kingdoms have never been more dangerous for a King.
1. Stannis I

_**A/N:** I love this character and just wanted to give him some justice, because he has been royally screwed over by his television portrayal. Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy! :)_

* * *

 **STANNIS I**

The first battle I bore witness to was one month after my ninth name day, and the clouds had gathered above us in a large grey cluster. Three days previous, a message arrived from the Tyrells of the Highgarden. They had sent word to my father that common folk from our lands were wreaking havoc on the grain farms that bordered our two regions. Men had been murdered. Women raped and taken hostage. My father read the letter aloud, not believing that children had innocent and sensitive ears. Instead of issuing a return response, he had the maester equip my brother and I with steel armor, gathered a company of one hundred and fifty bannermen, and rode for the Reach the next day. As the Maester Osmund had me fasten my greaves, I saw him quickly draft a message on a small, torn piece of parchment, and attached it to a raven that he promptly sent out of the armories window. As we rode, I wondered what the message said. It was no doubt directed towards a highborn lord; I saw the wax seal.

We now sat atop a hill with tall grass, on the border of the Reach. Below, houses were burnt to ash. Bodies littered the roads. A sea of red mud flooded the river bank, two hundred yards to the sheer humidity made me start to sweat around the neck of my chest guard. As the raindrops slowly fell, I began to shift back and forth on my saddle. Robert, my elder brother, smacked the arch of my back. When I turned to return the favor, I found my father — wearing an iron helmet with Baratheon antlers adorning its crown — staring back at me. Surrounded by his bannermen, each wearing short golden cloaks, he shook his head. "We weather the storm. We endure discomfort." He read my face, and he answered the question I didn't have the courage to voice.

 _"Because we must."_

I watched as he, along with more than half of his company, galloped down the hill to meet the bandits. As the mud and shit kicked up from their heels, I feared my father wouldn't return. Worry consumed me, and I turned to my brother, who seemed calm, his long black hair plastered to his jaw. "Robert, I'm frightened," I whispered. He ignored my complaints and kept his eyes fixed on the battle below. Iron clashed and the river of blood flowed quicker, it's redness deepening. Screams were heard below. I recognized the voice of command as my father's. "Torys, flank my right!" he shouted. More clashing. More screams. Until they suddenly ceased. And they were replaced by roars from beneath. Echoing their roar were the soldiers guarding us. Robert raised a fist to join them. Our banners of gold and black danced in the downpour.

Victory. My first experience with it. I had been bested in swordplay by my brother countless times. In archery as well. Others proved better at leisure activities. Where I thrived was the scroll; penmanship and learning. Only because Robert had no patience for it. But there was no "victory" to be gained in the pursuit of knowledge. I longed to be a great warrior, the likes of Aemon the Dragonknight, or even Ser Duncan the Tall. To serve the king in his Kingsguard. To don the white cloak and vow to protect the King even if meant my death.

It never happened.

No, nine years later, my brother and his surrogate family raised their banners in Rebellion. I was garrisoned at our hold, where tensions had already been raised since the death of Lord Rickard Stark and his eldest son Brandon. I had known both to be honorable men, but no one dared raise a finger to challenge the Mad King. When Robert did, I was left completely defenseless. Well, not completely. The walls of Storm's End kept me safe. To stall my brothers adversaries, we starved. My family, my men, our people.

I never forgot that. And I never will.

Now, I stood in storm once again. This time aboard a ship set sail for the Iron Islands.

The salty mist brushed my face. We had been sailing for several hours now, and were now within a few miles of the Straits of Fair Aisle, where scouts had reported seeing near one thousand Ironborn sails. Robert had every tree in the Riverlands torn down to build himself and Lord Eddard Stark, the Warden in the North, a fleet to attack Pyke. Our attack was a coordinated effort. Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden in the East and Robert's father by marriage, was ambushed and delivered a humiliating defeat at his wharf, Lannisport.

I didn't care who was leading them; they would all perish beneath my fury.

Robert - now, _King Robert_ \- bestowed upon me, as Master of Ships, the honor of breaking the Iron Fleet. For the first time since we were children, Robert extended me actual respect.

I was to take the Royal Fleet and meet with ships from the Arbor, commanded by Lord Paxter Redwyne — a man who participated in the attempted destruction of my home; and failed. Uneasy was not the proper word to describe my feelings towards Lord Redwyne. He did his duty, and for that I had honest respect. But when Lord Eddard arrived on Storm's End to lift the siege, Lord Redwyne bent the knee alongside his liege lord, pleading ignorance. Robert rewarded his treason by letting Mace Tyrell keep all of his previous titles - including Warden in the South - and offering Lord Redwyne a seat on his small council. No doubt the influence of his new beloved ally and father by law.

When I arrived with my men days before, Lord Redwyne greeted me warmly. I never was fond of the Reach. It's sweet scents nauseated me. It smelled of treachery and deceit. I preferred the smell of salt and grass. Their men were not hardened and respectable like the north. They were not warriors. Scholars maybe. But in my eyes, cowards. Even the great Lord Randyll Tarly, a good swordsman in his own right, was powerless when grim Ned Stark approached with his hadn't a shred of honor, much like the Ironborn. But unlike the Ironborn, they knew when to roll over. Paxter Redwyne was an experienced sailor but like his countrymen, unremarkable in matters of war. When he received me at his gates, I saw that he wore a pear-colored cloak draped over a detailed leather cuirass, with a pattern of his house sigil etched at the center of his chest. I became amused at the thought of burying my broadsword through it. His face was weathered, but his expression was soft. He smelled of a putrid, dishonorable politician.

"Lord Stannis. The Arbor and House Redwyne welcomes you, my lord," he said as he bowed courteously.

"Lord Redwyne. I am not here for pleasantries," I replied curtly. Annoyed and furious though I was, he was still the Lord of the Arbor and I would address him as such.

"Of course." His smile betrayed him. It appeared that he too was not fond of this new alliance, sailing beneath a man who he still considered to be a boy of four and twenty.

"See that your men are prepared for a long voyage."

"These men are nothing if not experienced. The best sailors in Wes-"

"And see that they remove their heavy pauldrons and cuirasses."

"Paxter raised a skeptical brow. "We have no need to change tactics now," he said. "My men are used to sailing. We've traveled in all sorts of weather. Some travel to Braavos once every moon. We have no fear."

I scoffed at his arrogance. "Very well. Keep your armor. When we sail, your ships will flank my left. You will follow my lead. There will be no exceptions made for an order failed to be carried out. And should you or any of your men should drown, I will show you the same concern you have shown me." Lord Redwyne, obviously offended, didn't dare challenge my authority.

Though he gritted his teeth, he bowed his head in deference. "As you command."

When I looked back, I saw Lord Redwynes ships swaying on the waves off the coast of Lannisport. He was not talking out of his arse when he boasted of his men's ability to sail. Their ships cut through the waves, limiting its shiftiness. They ran a tight ship. In my eyes, it was all a performance. As useless as their formalities and red drink. The real battle was ahead, not here. To the east, the harbor was visible. It was occupied by large piles of ship debris. In the distance, I could see Lannister men, dressed in their easily distinguishable crimson armor, piling the debris, no doubt getting ready to burn it after the passing of the storm. Some were sitting. When they recognized our ships and King Robert's banners, they rose to their feet and cheered loudly. Our men cheered in response, and the Tyrell and Redwyne men echoed. I had no doubts that the Ironborn heard that. I thought to silence my men, to keep our position a mystery to the enemy.

But this in fact worked to our benefit.

I began planning how to go about this attack. The gears turned, and I contemplated the possible outcomes.

Seconds passed, and I had come up with the strategy we needed to defeat our adversary.

" _Captain Gilbert Farring!_ " I shouted above the sound of the crashing waves. A man suited in traditional Royal navy armor ran alongside the ship's rails, passing by the soldiers holding the sail intact.

"Yes, m'lord!"

"Captain Farring," I repeated, still speaking loud and clear. "Before we round this peninsula, inform Lord Redwyne that he is to halt his ships one mile off the coastline. Drop their anchors. Use the flags."

"Aye aye, sir!" He retreated back to the stern with his orders.

If my strategy were to work, we would need to be absolutely precise. Looking to the rear, I saw a line of our sailors waving striped flags in the direction of the Redwyne war galleys. The order was acknowledged. As we navigated around the tip of the peninsula of Kayce, my chest tightened, and I clenched my hand on the hilt of my sword to calm my nerves. Robert called this feeling thrill. I called it dread. Death was fast approaching, and I had no desire to meet him prematurely. I stood at the bow, peering through the dark shadows that the clouds had cast and the relentless mist of salt and rain. A hand reached out to grip my shoulder. I nearly threw the man in the ocean beneath our ship. I recognized the hand of my bannerman, Ser Davos Seaworth. One of the three officers I had aboard my ship.

"Get your hand off of me," I spat.

"Apologies, m'lord," he said earnestly, removing his hand. "I overheard your command of Captain Farring. I am here to be your second voice."

"''My lord', Ser Davos. 'M'lord' is a lowborn dialect." Despite my insult, I appreciated his presence. I would need someone to relay my command to the men. "Stay behind me," I commanded. "And speak clearly."

"Aye, my lord."

"Sound the drums," I commanded. War was as much about swords as they were about the drum and horn. My attention refocused on the open body of water before me. Visibility was still non-existent. The torrential rain continued to pour, its rage smattering the deck, while the waves continued to crash against our port side. I needed to be able to see in order to command. And right now, I was blind, A moment later, a bolt of lightning and booming thunder changed that.

The Iron fleet lay in wait, three hundred yards off the coast of Fair Isle, making way for the mainland. This, I would not allow. An icy breeze passed, prompting the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up. Quelling this sick rebellion began here. I would succeed where Tywin failed, even if at the cost of my life. I would not return, a wounded dog before my King brother.

"Ready the soldiers!" I shouted. The order was echoed to the soldiers who lay beneath. I kept my eyes to the fleet, never looking away, for fear of losing sight of them. "On my command, lower the sails!" I would not be hastened to make first contact. But I would make it appear so.

"Ramming speed! Make for the strait!"

Ser Davos hesitated, I could feel it. But he did his duty and shouted my next command. The Baratheon stag wavered, before catching the wind. We traveled at breakneck speed, making for the strait with haste. Come now, you godless scum. The Iron Fleet, which had been pouring through the strait in a line, unusual for Ironborn, suddenly disorganized, and began bolting for the strait in an effort to intercept us. Fools. As we closed in on their ships, a heat raised within my chest.

"Lower sails!"

My men were well trained. The command was executed without hesitation. Our great war galley, Fury, stopped momentum, treading approximately forty yards away from the strait. Ironborn soldiers roared from the decks of their ships. Fools. Their ships steadied at the tip of the strait, and there was shouting. They were preparing to board. As the sound of their shield and axe and sword echoed across the sea, a strong storm breeze carried through, causing my cloak to press against my shoulders.

"Raise sails!"

"Raise the sails!" echoed the Onion Knight.

"ROW YOU LAZY, CUNT, BASTARDS!" shouted Captain Farring from the far rear.

Our golden sails whipped violently before catching the tailwind, propelling us forward. "READY THE SWORDS!"

"SWORDS TO THE FRONT!" shouted Ser Davos.

In a few moments, we would be breathing the same hot air as the Ironborn. I had known a few in my youth. Some were vagabond pirates, others were rapers and thieves. They were indecent and without a shred of honor. But they were formidable warriors. One would think that being raised on fish and piss, the Ironborn would be weak. When face to face with an Ironborn, that theory quickly evaporates. In one instance, a single Ironborn soldier murdered two whole garrisons on our shores. I learned later that the man who maimed and massacred my men was none other than Victarion Greyjoy, the Captain of the Iron Fleet - and the false King Balon Greyjoy's younger brother. I had fear. Fear of death. Fear of being taken prisoner by such brutes.

Their roars broke my trance. Behind me stood near two hundred men, in two columns along either side of the scorpion clad deck. This was no time to be questioning myself, yet here I stood, frozen as we approached the Kraken. As I glanced at our position, I carefully calculated. We would smash their first ship.

"CAPTAIN FARRING!" I shouted.

"YES, MY LORD!"

"LOOSE THE FLEET! SEND FOR REDWYNE TO INTERCEPT THEIR SHIPS!"

"AYE, MY LORD!"

He stormed to the stern. In the thick veil of rain, the Redwyne ships seemed almost invisible. Had they abandoned us? No, they were docked to our rear. They would do their duty. As much of a petty schemer Lord Redwyne was, he would not go against the wish of his liege lord in favor of a Greyjoy. As we approached, I noticed that their longship had stalled.

Stuck on the rocks. They were careless. So excited by the potential battle that the dullards didn't realized they were on the shores of Fair Isle. We had them.

"Full speed, Ser Davos," I commanded, a calm washing over me.

"FULL SPEED!" The soldiers controlling the sails yanked their ropes low, creating a bowl for the wind. Below, the waves crashed against our starboard. Oars rowed at a furious pace. If we missed our target, we would be doomed to a cruel fate. Many of our men would drown in the wreckage. I wouldn't let that happen. Of course, it came down to timing...and execution. "Steer east!"

"EAST!" shouted my second-in-command.

I donned the helm that my brother had made for me, his wedding gift to me. It was a simple steel helm, with a ridge running up the center, and carved maple antlers extending from either side of the helm. It saved my vision. The men would know their commander in the field of battle now.

"Draw swords!' I withdrew my weapon from its sheath. It's wail made my skin crawl. To my rear, two hundred men followed the command, kite shields and blades at the ready. On our enemies ship, half of the crew frantically tried using oars to propel them away from the rocks. The other half stood firm, shadows in the mist. I had seen worse. Yet, the feeling never eased. "These treasonous pretenders mean to bleed our realm dry! They wish to make wenches of our women, and mountains of our corpses; including your children. We have a duty to uphold. Survival! Slay these criminals, and live on as decorated heroes of the realm!" Cheers shook our galley, almost as powerful as the rolling thunder that lingered to our starboard. A bright flash of lightning made of course clear. We were within fifty meters of the enemies ships. The Fury's men-at-arms remained unshaken, wearing intense glares on their wet faces.

"Archers!" The sound of armored feet shuffled about the deck behind me.

"Knock!" A faint sound of twined bowstring being drawn.

It all happened in an instant. "LOOSE!" Through the relentless downpour, another sort of rain sliced through the air. Bone chilling screams were carried by the wind. "Brace!" Impact was imminent. As we rocked back on the waves beneath us, we were suddenly thrown - coursing forward to the head of their fleet. There was crunch, and a moment later, bloody splinters smashed my face and helm. When I brought my arm down to examine Fury, I found that we had cut their ship in half. At the bow, an ironborn soldier was pinned, his body split, mirroring his mother ship. I rushed to the front, and remembered my duty, "Board!"

Behind me, Ser Davos rallied the men to his side, his pot helm, with studded ear-guards shined. The brave knight charged to the rails. "Ladders!" he shouted. I would entrust command to him for now. The pinned Ironborn continued to scream. I held my sword to his throat, pressing it into his bulged, purple veins. "Whose ship is this?" I questioned. He groaned, and then...began to laugh hysterically.

"I ain't telling you a fuckin' thing," he said, as he expectorated his bloody filth towards me.

"You have a choice, soldier; tell me whose ship this is and die quickly, or continue your stubborn performance and I keep you alive and give you to a Lord who will strip you of more than just your rags."

His red smile widened. "Eat the corn out've my shit, mainlander. What is dead may never d-"

Before he could finish, I cut his throat, and his veins flushed out onto the deck before me. My nerves had calmed, and I flew across the ladder, boarding the enemy ship. I stood and peered through the mist, where I saw Lord Redwynes ships had carried out my command. They had successfully cut off the fleet. Another victory. Minor though it was, still a victory. Across the planks of the half of the ship I had boarded, Ironborn dead were littered, a crimson river rushing into the sea. At the aft, a group of four Ironborn were encircled by my men.

"My lord, should we put these scum in irons?" said Captain Farring, through gritted teeth.

"You're not puttin' anyone in anythin', you girly fooks," said a long haired ironborn, with a jagged scar over his milk colored eye.

There was more screaming below deck, and we swayed on the waves. I stepped forward to face the adversary. "The name of this ship." He looked at me incredulously, almost in disbelief before he began to laugh.

"This is Lord Aeron Greyjoy's ship. Golden Storm."

I called for Ser Gilbert and he stood by side, awaiting his next command studiously. "Gather the men. Take Aeron and put him aboard the ship. We are still at war."

Captain Farring did not hesitate. He knew better than to question orders, as a veteran of the Rebellion. As my men passed me, worried expressions did as well. Soon, the deck emptied, and I was alone with the four Ironborn soldiers. Their weapons were still at the ready, and they looked equally confused as they did bloodthirsty.

"You're not very smart, are you?" the shaggy haired one spat. He was supposedly their captain

I weaved my sword to my front and charged forward. Axe and swords from three directions rained down on me. I parried them all and swept my sword across their cotton covered bellies. Their remains came pouring out, and as I turned back to their leader, I felt my sword hand raise. When it came down, his hair splayed over the deck. This was far from over. We were currently docked, and not providing any use staying here. As I boarded my flagship and ordered the men to remove us from the wreckage, Ser Davos approached me.

"My lord, Aeron Greyjoy was not found amongst the living. He may have drowned with the others when we destroyed the ship."

I breathed heavy, and examined the sea separating us from the Isles. We would need to finish these bastards here and now, and quickly take Great Wyk before they send soldiers to Pyke.

"We have no time to search for Aeron. Turn this ship around, and make for Great Wyk."

"As you command, my lord."

Lack of honesty and justice was a pesky Ironborn trait. I would purge their dishonor from this realm.


	2. Stannis II

_**A/N:** Chapter two! Trying my best to stay true to the character and setting. Hope you guys enjoy this one. And again, thanks for reading :)_

* * *

 **STANNIS II**

" _H_ _e refused a pint delivered by_ _me_ _, the stubborn cunt!"_

His laugh and boisterousness never failed to charm men; his _enemies_ even. Women fawned just being in his presence. The bulk spilling out from his armor and his obnoxious warhammer laid across the table as decor. It's fine oak handle - strengthened by steel rings that Robert insisted on forging himself - was stained with the crimson remains of Greyjoy soldiers.

I could never stand to put my sword away in it's scabbard without cleaning the blade first. Robert held no such disgust.

" _The 'proud' Balon Greyjoy. I'll give him this much; balls of iron indeed!"_

More cheap laughter rained down from the galleries above, and ale was heard spilling across nearly every inch of the Red Keep's floors.

 _I despised feasts._

Dishonesty all around. False praise and men looking to take advantage of my brother's "generosity". But Robert fucking _loved_ it. And Robert was King. As Lord of Dragonstone, I was "required" to attend. He did not need to ask, I knew my duty. However, there is honor in duty. Whatever... _this_ was, it surely was not honorable. More obligatory than anything, really. I stood far away from the crowd; observing from afar. The King rumbled over to the western side of the great hall. He placed his giant arm around the shoulder of the man he valued more than just about anyone in the Seven Kingdoms. His brother in arms - and the Warden of the North. Eddard Stark was a good, decent man with a keen sense of justice. He was well liked amongst those at court. Celebrated as a hero of the war who fought valiantly at Robert's side, Lord Stark proved his worth. I had respect for him; one of the few highborn lords that did not shame his rank and title.

But Robert had _more_ than respect for him. He _loved_ the man.

That much was clear. When Lord Stark marched to lift the Siege on the homeland I had been tasked with defending, a large feast was thrown for him. Not that I cared. I never fought for the sake of glory. My brother arrived at the gates of our castle and I met him, bending the knee and bowing my head. When I did so, he...laughed. I rose to my feet, and he gave me my next command, not bothering to offer me any sort of thanks for my part in his Rebellion. I still couldn't keep any food down; I was gaunt and lacking vigor. But I obeyed his command, and sailed for Dragonstone as he and his _beloved_ Ned celebrated.

Not much had changed since. As I watched from the outskirts of the gallery, the familiar sight of my brother acting like more of a jester than a King caught my eye. He danced with Lord Stark, and sang loudly.

 _Off to Gulltown to see the fair maid, heigh-ho, heigh-ho._

 _I'll steal a sweet kiss with the point of my blade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho._

 _I'll make her my love and we'll rest in the shade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho._

"Greetings, Lord Stannis," a burly voice said courteously.

When I turned my head, I found a heavy set man with a pale yellow beard. _Not a soldier,_ I thought. He did not stink of ale as the others did, but his cheeks were as rosy as a common drunk. The man wore fine silk clothing, colored blue-green, with boiled leather sleeves. His cloak was made of snow white fur, which matched the color of his hair. A single silver pin held the cloak together, in the shape of a trident.

I matched his appearance to his name.

"Lord Manderly," I said curtly.

Wyman, the head of House Manderly stood, proudly stomping his foot to the gleaming marble floor beneath him. The plump man smiled weakly, and bowed. "I have heard stories about your victory at sea against the savage Ironborn." _A bit direct, are we?_

"I did what was required of me."

"You also conquered Great Wyk with ease."

"The Greyjoys lacked the discipline required to win battles. We strategically tore them down. In single combat, they are formidable opponents, to be sure. But war is not a duel. They will think twice the next time they have thoughts of rebellion."

He nodded knowingly. Something about this man irritated me. Maybe it was the fact that he looked like a lazy highborn ass with a pompous aura. Or maybe it was because I knew that he had not participated in our suppression efforts. His brow furrowed as I stared at him. When he straightened his posture, I scoffed. He was barrel chested, but he a gust of wind would tip him over. The man looked like he had no balance.

We stood in relative silence, aside from his labored breathing. "I was wondering, my lord, if you would join me for a drink at my table."

The Manderly's were one of the wealthiest families in the North - of course they had their own table. "A drink that would go to waste. The King would be overjoyed to share your company."

The fat lord laughed, tucking his chin and patting his protruding stomach. "I only meant to thank _you_ , my lord. Though...there was a matter of great importance that I wished to discuss."

"And what would the subject of this matter pertain?" I inquired.

His stance opened and he directed me to his table. ""A simple request from an old man." Here stood another shameless highborn Lord, using his status to manipulate me. But after five years at court, I knew sincerity when I saw it. Slimy and forward, though he was, the man was no snake.

"I'll entertain your speak until I tire of it. I will have no drink and I will not sit before men of your house, to be judged."

He hesitated at my response, and his face fell. "As you wish, Lord Stannis." Members of his house shuffled about, showing their discomfort. Most were hearty looking men; typical northerners. Bearded, gruff, and capable. But their disposition made me uneasy. I did not fear them, and they certainly shared the sentiment. Wyman turned to face the opposite direction, beckoning me to listen.

"You are a fine example of a proper lord. The truth of the matter is; I grow old. Soon, my son Wylis will become Lord of White Harbor." He coughed, then took a sip of the goblet of wine he had brought with him. "He is a good son; kind and strong." To that, I scoffed. Fathers have such idealistic views of their offspring. "But the man...lacks a certain edge to him. He is no warrior. He lacks an edge." His hands raised to brush his beard. They were surprisingly small-boned. The hands of a conflict averse Lord. I remained silent, waiting for him to make his intent clear. "In the aftermath of your brothers war, I heard stories about the great Stannis Baratheon and his unmatched courage. You held fast against a year long siege." The taste of baked rats returned to my tongue. _Dark days_. Many took their own lives, not wanting to experience the despair. Some passed the time by losing their wits. At the age of ten and seven, I had already known the smell of death. I had known crippling desperation. Despite it all, I never faltered. If I had shown any weakness, the castle would have been surrendered months earlier.

"You state my record," I said clearly. "But you do not make clear your purpose. Are you here to shine my arse, or ask me a favor?" His cheeks reddened deeper.

"My lord, you misunderstand me. I only offer simple, harmless praise," said Lord Wyman. His tone changed. He'd taken offense to my affront. "Lord Stannis, I will be frank." The man had not one ounce of hardness left in him. It was almost pitiful. " It is my wish that you foster one of my kin."

My eyebrow raised in skepticism. He was not the first to approach me with such a request. After the Rebellion, the same Lords who sat outside the walls of Storm's End and starved my hold, came with extravagant gifts and proposals. "Apologies. I am not inclined to take anyone into my house. As Master of Ships, I have neither the time nor the patience required for fostering."

"Do you have a squire at your employ?"

In truth, my squire perished at sea. My wife's nephew. A sickly lad. _Rodrik Florent_. A strong name unbefitting of such a boy. "I have no squire. However, I cannot accept a Northern Lords son before mine own bannermen."

"You are the King's brother. Surely you can make them understand."

I was beginning to become irked. What allegiance should I have to the Manderly's? Why should I " _make"_ anyone understand my decision on Wyman Manderly's behalf? "Again, my lord. You have approached the wrong man," I said bluntly. "You should turn to your liege lord. He is a man worthy of acknowledgement, is he not?"

"Ned Stark is a good man. One of the finest men in all of Westeros. But he is like all Northmen. My son would draw on his courtesy and use it to secure his own comforts."

"And I am Lord Stark's lesser?"

I knew what he was implying, but watching him squirm was somewhat amusing. "Not at _all_ , my lord! I acknowledge that Lord Ned is honest and true. But my son could find a sturdy Northern upbringing at home. It is not my wish for him to remain in White Harbor, or anywhere else in the North, to fatten." The man certainly had self awareness. "I know how I am known abroad. _Lord Too-Fat-To-Sit-A-Horse_. Wylis is no different...I was too soft on him. And Wendel. There was a time when I dreamed of leading our house into battle. Such fantasies are no longer a reality for me.

"We do not know much about each other, my lord. But I know enough to know that you are a man of integrity, with a...shaky reputation, but unquestionable valor."

"Is this meant to be your form of flattery?" I sneered.

"Not flattery, my lord. An appeal to your judgement. Please. Meet my son. He is my third-born, but still a _Manderly_. It is my wish for that to change. For our house to have something worth taking pride in besides wealth."

As much as i wanted to deny him, and to show him a man who would not be sweetened by his cheerfulness; I instead continued to entertain him. I gave him an approving nod. "It is my duty to inform you; most children don't take easily to me."

He waved away my warning, and smiled widely. Instead, he turned his attention to his men. " _Willem!_ " A man of great bulk - but also strength, made clear by his muscular arms - stood. Was _this_ his thirdborn? There was certainly poundage that the man could do without, but aside from that, he looked like a capable soldier as he was. Black-bearded and square jawed. " _That_ is your son?" I asked, caught adrift for a moment.

He chortled. "No, my lord. That is the head of my personal guard, Ser Roland Woolfield. One of the finest wielders of a mace that I've ever seen. My son stands beside him." As the formidable figure of his soldier approached, I took note of the child who walked beside his person. The boy had mustard colored hair and a chubby torso like his father. Rosy was his freckled cheeks. He held a lamb pie in his hand, the flakes dropping as he dragged his feet across the hall to our station.

"Lord Stannis of the House Baratheon; my son, Willem Manderly."

The boy bent the knee, before his lord father tapped his shoulder. "You kneel only for the _King,_ Willem," he whispered. The boy stood his feet and wavered around, unbalanced. His father reached for the pie, and young Willem gave the food up reluctantly. Old Wyman beamed at his son pridefully.

Regardless of what I thought of the boy, I owed him a fair chance to make an impression. "How old are you, boy?"

His head raised. "Nine years, my lord." A weak voice.

"You do your studies?" I doubted the boy was well-learned.

"I do, my lord," he said.

"You don't have to call me _my lord_ anymore. Ser will do."

"Yes, m-ser. Yes, ser."

I looked to Wyman to step in. Did he not notice my discomfort? I wasn't at all pleased with this first meeting. Still, I didn't want to scare the lad. In a way, he reminded me of _home…_

"Do you love your family?" I asked.

The boy looked puzzled. His lips parted, before he changed his mind, and remained silent. I looked deep into his light-brown eyes. In them, I began to see something...something interesting. "Yes, ser. I love my family. They are the most important...thing in this world." His father nodded proudly at his answer. Truthfully, I was somewhat disappointed. He had given me a fine, bookend answer. An answer that _I too_ would have given at age nine. A pity. I thought I saw something different in him. "But…" he continued. "I think that duty is important too. Ex-specially if you're a soldier."

" _E-_ specially," I corrected.

His rosy cheeks tightened, and the boy bowed his head.

"Raise your head when a Lord is speaking to you, lad," I scolded. An almost visible aura of fear emanated from his body. If he was going to be a knight, he would have to get used to worse men than me.

Slowly, his eyes met mine again. In this child eyes, I did _indeed_ see something. A fire. The boy had desire in his eyes. Whether it be a desire to _kill_ , or a desire to _learn_ , I wasn't sure what it was - yet. It was a desire that would need to be tempered. _A curious thing._ "What do you make of King's Landing?" I asked.

The boy scratched his head initially. "King's Landing?"

I motioned for him to continue. I was the one asking questions here.

"Well...my lord...I think that it has beauty. But I've seen some pretty ghastly things here as well. And I'm not talking about the people."

"Ghastly. An appropriate word for this place," I started. As I looked on the boy's face, I saw that the redness had covered the entirety of his face. He'd been tortured enough. "Do you know why I'm asking you these questions?" I asked gently.

The boy exhaled quietly, and answered. "No, my lord."

I tilted my head upwards and looked down, with a raised brow. "Are you curious?"

"Yes, my lord," he said earnestly. "But it's not my place to pry."

A chuckle escaped my lips, and a smile spread across my face. "The boy is ready to be knighted here and now." The boy's shoulders shrugged up to his ears, and he turned pale.

"Alright," I said, pursing my lips. My attention turned to Lord Wyman, whose eyes were sparkling. "I think I've seen enough." My tone was icy, and unreadable. Father taught me to never give away my intentions too quickly.

The old man's face fell, and he quietly sent his son back to their table. " _Run along, Willem. I'll be joining you in a bit."_ We stood and watched as young Willem waddled back to his father's bannermen. They welcomed him back with pats on the back, and rubbed the boy's head, treating him as they would a commoner boy.

"Lord Stannis, my deepest apologies. My son...he...he remains a foolish boy. But I bel-"

"The boy will do. He will be fostered. And when he comes of age, I will take him as my squire."

On the fat lord's face; disbelief. When he spoke next, his speech was stuttered. "Th...thank you, my lord." If it hadn't been for the recent birth of my daughter, I would have shunned him. But marriage and child-rearing had made me susceptible to fatherly appeals. "Lord Stannis, for you kindness, I offer you five hundred pounds of my dried, salted fish. I will not forget this, my lord."

I'd never cared for empty courtesy. But I had learned enough about Wyman Manderly to know that he was true. And for that, I gave him his due.

"The honor is mine own."

"Will you be traveling back to Dragonstone, my lord?"

"My wife is with child, so...yes," I answered.

"Will Willem be traveling with you, then?"

"If it is his wish. He may travel with you. I'm not opposed to receiving Northern guests."

His cheerfulness was unsettling.

"Then, with your permission, I will leave Willem in your hands."

I gave him a simple nod, and crossed my arms. "I leave at sunrise, Lord Manderly."

"He will be ready."

With that, we said our respective farewells, and shook hands. Most Lords made their fostering propositions at tourneys, at castles. Not this Lord. To his credit, the man had more courage than most of the men standing in this room. If he were in fighting shape, he would have been a valuable asset on the battlefield. Alas, he wasn't. But he wanted change, and he entrusted me with it. The boy was a third-born, and unmolded. The next few years of his life would determine the kind of knight he would become.

As I watched father and son celebrate what would ostensibly be their last night together for the next few years, memories of mine own father flashed through my mind. The halls jolly atmosphere and putrid smell of sex disgusted me. When I took leave for my quarters, I stood on the decks outside the Red Keep. The pale with moonlight illuminated all of King's Landing, even Fleabottom. The foul air outside was not much better, but the gaps of fresh filled my lungs. And not a single sound outside of the hall. It seemed that Robert's _great_ victory wasn't as great as he touted. The Realm did not care for his glorious battle. I often questioned whose decision it was to put him there in the first place. Was it the wise and stalwart Jon Arryn? Or the honorable Ned Stark? Robert was unparalleled on the field of battle, but a motley fool off of it. Perhaps it was our distant Targaryen lineage that gave Robert the claim. Ironic, since we ousted the flame-obsessed rabble.

My thoughts on legacy were interrupted by a soft _whoosh_ -ing sound followed by faint splashes. To my left, facing the royal courtyard ponds, was a little girl. Her reddish-brown hair was tied in a courtly braid. Spilling out of her right hand was a collection of pebbles. The girl was whipping rocks into the pond.

"It's not ladylike to skip stones." My voice echoed down the halls. What were all these children doing in such a godless place?

The girl turned slowly, a frown on her face. Her face was wet with tears. I didn't have any experience with sad children. Suddenly, a boy came running up from behind me. "Lady Margaery! I have been searching all over for you," the boy yelled.

He was a young lad, a few years younger than myself. No older than twenty. The girl dropped the rocks on the stone walkway. As she walked away, I stood near the rail, and waited. When she passed she peeked behind her escort and stuck her tongue out at me and laughed. Her giggles soon faded as she entered the hall. When the doors swung open, loud laughter rang through the Keep down to the Sept of Baelor.

I turned to start back to my quarters, with the future of Westeros on my mind.


End file.
